The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (17 page)

Michael nodded to the old, green man. “It must be sad for you, here in these last days,” he said with sympathy.

“My heart is a bit heavy, if I must confess to you, young Michael, but not for the reasons you might guess.” Engelmann watched Michael intently, gauging his level of interest in continuing the dialogue.

“I would imagine you are mournful that the flames are dying, or fearful of the encroaching dark. Are those your reasons, Arborist?”

“Those are two great travesties, of course, and my heart is torn because of them … but they are not what truly sadden me.” He paused to take a long pull upon his pipe. “I am most grieved by the loss of
hope
,” he said, his eyes moving from the tree to observe the response of this young visitor to his garden. “You see, the darkness and the felling have robbed the people of our brightest quality—our resolve, or perhaps even our ability, to hope.”

He let that thought sink deep into Michael’s bones for a moment while he took in another draw from his slender, green pipe.

“It is not just men either, Michael. Even my own kind have closed their hearts and hardened their very roots to the magical possibilities that hope can bring.”

Michael stared, deep in thought and entranced by the dancing light of the burning tree. It wasn’t the amber flames that held his attention though; it was the struggle to make sense of what this green-haired man had said.

He couldn’t remember ever putting hope aside; but then again, perhaps he had never truly picked it up to begin with.

“Why is hope so important, anyway?” he said in bold defiance. “That sounds like some kind of Poet teaching if you ask me. So tell me … where did all of their precepts take them, where did all of their ways lead them? What good did hope ever do those wandering exiles?”

He didn’t mean to come across so defensively, but it was a tender business to dabble with the notion that one might not be as right as one believed oneself to be. And indeed, it is even more provoking to consider the possibility that one perhaps might not be right at all.

The Arborist puffed away, unaffected by the tension floating amidst the silence. Wisdom often lets the defensive and volatile question answer its own self.

Michael grew a bit uncomfortable, afraid that he might have offended with his tone. He turned away from the tree and started to walk away from the sacred garden.

“Leaving, are you?” Engelmann inquired quietly.

“I thought I might have over-stepped and offended, and, well …”

“Ha! You would give up so easily?” the Arborist interrupted. “You have just proven my point to me, then, young Michael. You don’t even have the will to hope for an answer!” He shook his head in amused disbelief.

Michael was a bit relieved, though still not completely sure exactly what it was that this Engelmann was driving at.

Just then, the sound of the herald’s horn rang on the air, echoing off the hallowed face of Mount Aureole. The base of the holy mountain stood far above the bejeweled walls of the Capital, and from where the two of them stood they could see the citizens of Haven gathering in response to the summoning horns. This time the mounted guard had set a green and silver perimeter around Jhames’ carriage, proclaiming safety for him and danger for any who would dare disturb.

“We are going to seek the light!” Michael heard King Jhames speaking in faint echoes.

The crowd around Jhames began to press in, but not a word was spoken or comment whispered, for this was what they had been waiting days to hear—an answer, or at least an inkling of a plan to put their fears to rest.

“Even now we make preparations for a great mission, the most noble of all callings. We will set out in the footsteps of the great King Illium, only
we will not fail
in our task.”

The crowd began to buzz with nerves and excitement, looking this way and that, searching faces for approval and understanding.

“We have prayed to the THREE who is SEVEN and have reasoned that He aids those who make for themselves a new help. And so we are petitioning the strength of good men to strike the darkness and light the night as a new colony and a shining city across the Dark Sea.”

The silence broke, and questions flew back and forth amidst the curious audience gathered before the Priest King. Jhames raised up his hand, three fingers held in the shape of a
J,
calling order with this one motion to the mob of citizens.

“By the will of the THREE who is SEVEN and by the strength of our hands, these brave men will extend the reach of Haven into the unknown darkness, and keep fed, by their toil, the light of our great city.”

With that, cheers erupted from the people, and tears of happiness flooded the faces of men and women alike. Whether it was joy or relief or perhaps a mix of both, the citizens of Haven believed at that moment that there was indeed something that could be done to ward off the great darkening and save their city. The celebrations rang loud and long, and their jubilation echoed with such volume that Michael could feel their vibrations all the way atop that sacred hill.

“Well, what do you make of that, my green-haired friend?” Michael said, feeling a bit lively after seeing such joy enter the city. “That looks an awful lot like hope to me.” He couldn’t keep the gloating twinkle from his eyes.

“Indeed it does, young Michael, indeed it does,” the Arborist said. “But do not be fooled into thinking all is well. For relief often masquerades itself as hope, but the two of them are not nearly as similar as they appear. You see, relief’s only promise is in survival, whereas hope, well … hope dreams of a new way of living altogether.”

Michael watched as Engelmann rose to his feet and began to walk deeper into the sacred garden. He was not sure if this conversation was over, or if he had offended the Arborist in some way, or if he was supposed to go after the green-haired gardener.

Engelmann paused for a moment, then turned to speak. “Why don’t you follow me, Master Michael, and I will show you what it is that I dream of. Huh? Come, and I will show you a real beauty to be hopeful about.”

Chapter Nineteen

E
ngelmann
the Hopeful, keeper of the burning tree and Arborist of Haven, led Michael up from the outer courtyard and towards the iron willow that stood proud and tall just outside the gate of the inner garden. Michael watched the old, green-haired man in wide-eyed wonder. Never in his whole life would he have hoped to see the great gardens of the Citadel, let alone meet the Chancellor or visit the dwelling place of the Arborists. And yet, here he was, Engelmann leading him to a gigantic willow tree wrought out of iron. The iron bark on its great frame was so life-like that it looked as if it had been planted here in the granite earth as some mythical iron seed.

At the eastern base of the trunk was a single iron door, whose handle was fashioned out of a large emerald in the shape of a single leaf. Engelmann gave Michael a wink, then placed his left hand over the emerald knob and closed his eyes as if he were in some kind of meditation or deep prayer. The emerald leaf glowed out from under the wrinkled, leathery hand of the Arborist. When Engelmann had deemed it time, he turned the handle to the right. Michael watched with fascination as the great iron door opened up before him.

“Welcome, young Michael!” Engelmann said with a mixture of mischief and anticipation in his voice. “Welcome to the Hall of the Arborists.”

Michael looked a bit unsure of himself. “Are you sure this is allowed? I mean, I don’t want to cause any harm to the tree or be a bother to your Arborist friends as you work.”

“Oh!” the Arborist laughed. “We have no cause to either mistrust you or be irritated by you. I doubt that anyone could do harm to this tree even if he did mean to do so. For you see, it was not man that caused it to fail or shed its branches and fade its light. That is not the doing of your kind, young Michael.”

“Well then, whose doing is it?” Michael asked.

“Ah, well … it is
His
doing Michael,” Engelmann replied. “It is all part of the plan that the THREE who is SEVEN has magnificently set into motion.”

“I … I don’t understand,” Michael said as he looked up past the iron willow towards the burning tree. “Why would He want to do that?”

“Precisely!” Engelmann exclaimed. “Come, let me show you. Come on.”

Engelmann led Michael through the iron door and into the mother willow. They climbed down the inside of the willow’s trunk on a small winding set of iron stairs. After a brief descent, the stair chamber opened up into an expansive earthen room with black, sparkling granite walls. The room’s ceiling was hundreds of hands high and supported by the most unusual looking columns.

The air inside was warm, even though Michael guessed they must have been three to four stories underground. He could not see a burning hearth or lit brazier anywhere, and by all rights and logic it should be much colder here under the earth. Somehow, though, this hallowed hall beneath the burning tree was pleasantly comfortable.

At the center of the great hall was the largest library Michael had ever seen. Rows upon rows of bookshelves were lined with tomes, scrolls and manuscripts; the nearby writing spaces held scrapped pieces of parchment, quills, and inkwells. Lamps and maps littered the large stone tables that surrounded the library, and a few simply carved stools and modest chairs were sprinkled throughout the whole of the great hall.

At the base of the stairs, mounted on a solitary piece of granite, were the first two fallen branches of the great tree. They had been gilded in the highest quality gold and upon their shining frames was inscribed the single word,
Remember
.

Michael slowly descended the iron steps, greedily drinking in all that his thirsty eyes could take. His mind was filling up with questions so quickly that he couldn’t begin to decide which of them he should ask first.

Along the massive walls formed of earth and stone was a single row of wooden busts. These old faces told the stories and kept the memories of generation after long-forgotten generation of those who had tended the tree and called this hall home. Michael’s fingers reached out tentatively. After glancing for an approving nod from Engelmann, he traced the expertly carved lines of wrinkled faces and scraggly beards.

“There are no names for these men,” Michael mused. “How would one know who they are, or what deeds they have done?”

“Oh young one,” Engelmann said kindly. “Their names are there, you but only have to look a bit deeper.”

Michael, still confused, could not make out any type of label or marking to differentiate one bust from another.

“You see, this here is my great-grandfather, Sitka
,
and this fine, old, fire-haired fellow is his cousin, Cedar.” Engelmann continued down the line of carved busts. “These two are brothers, Hemlock and Hawthorne; now theirs is a sad story indeed. Here is Hornbeam, Dogwood, Douglas, and of course, the first of our kind, Willow.”

“All of them are named after trees, of course. But if you were not here to tell me, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea who was who,” Michael said.

“Well, it seems to me that you still might not be looking carefully enough. Perhaps that is the problem with the residents of Haven as of late; they look only for an easy answer all nice and spelled out for them, right there on the surface of things,” Engelmann grumbled.

“What about examining and exploring a bit? Huh? What about deliberately diving deeper and letting that flint-locked mind of yours do what it was made to do?” He reached out and tapped Michael’s head forcefully with his gnarled, leathery finger.

Michael looked apologetically at the Arborist for a moment, and then back at the line of busts, rather embarrassed that he could not seem to grasp the answer to whatever riddle the old man was carrying on about. “Are they in order? I mean, chronological order?” he asked.

Engelmann just stood there, arms crossed, shaking his head disapprovingly at the young groomsman.

Michael sloughed off the scowl and went back to staring at the carved, wooden busts. He counted the names that Engelmann had recited on his fingers, and was able to come up with a name for each of the eight, although he was not confident that they corresponded correctly.

“Come Michael, just look a bit below the surface,” Engelmann said. “Look behind the carved lines and the rendered expressions, and tell me what you see?”

Michael thought again for a moment. “All I see is a block of wood.”

“Precisely!” Engelmann shouted a bit too loudly. “And what can you tell me about these blocks of wood?”

“Well, they are all different …” Michael answered him, a glimmer of understanding touching his tone of voice. “Wait a moment! I think I understand.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Engelmann teased him.

“Each bust must be fashioned from the tree that the Arborist is named after!” he said self-approvingly.

“Well done, young Michael, well done indeed,” Engelmann chuckled as he placed his arm upon the young groomsman’s back. “You see, my boy, not all in this world can be taken merely at face value. Some things are more than carved lines and rendered facades; you must look beneath the surface to find their true identity.” He spoke with a contemplative wisdom as he led Michael through the great hall.

“Sadly there are only four of my kind left here in this world,” he continued. “Ispen and Aspen, well … they are unfortunately more in the service of the Priest King than of the great tree. Elmer the Young and I are the only two who still care to look behind the obvious face of our dilemma.”

“And what do you and Elmer the Young see?” Michael asked him.

“Only what all the prophecies point to,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And what is it that they point to?” Michael pressed.

“Well now,
that
is a very good question indeed, young Michael!” Engelmann gazed proudly at his unsuspecting pupil. “Come, let me show you something.”

He led Michael over to the nearest of the columns and, turning to face the young man, he pointed to the enormous structure. “Tell me what you see here.”

“These are columns,” he said, a bit underwhelmed.

“Are they?” Engelmann pressed. “Do you
know
that these are columns? Have you ever seen columns like these?”

“Well, um … they look like columns,” Michael responded, a little unsure of himself now. He stared at the solid wooden pillars, noticing that no two were identical. He wondered about the purpose for the strange design, but nothing struck him that would easily explain their varying size and patterning.

Engelmann assumed the pose he had struck while Michael was examining the busts just moments before; face stoic, arms crossed, attention locked on the young groomsman who was clearly meant to repeat the same kind of exercise all over again.

“Alright. I don’t think that I have seen columns quite like this before,” Michael said slowly. “Not one of them seems to have the same girth as the next. It seems like some sort of sculpture, or … no!” Michael exclaimed. “More like the unbraided strands of a rope!”

He shifted his gaze to the floor of the hall, and saw that the columns looked as if they went straight through the ground, bracing the ceiling by way of something underneath the floor. His eyes followed the long, irregular wooden structures and saw that they went up through the ceiling in the same manner. He thought for a moment about what was above them here in this chamber, and then it dawned on him.

“These are the roots of the great tree?” he asked, stunned at what he had just realized. Michael reached out to touch the sacred tree.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Engelmann scolded, batting Michael’s hand away with the end of his long pipe. “I wouldn’t touch those if I were you, for it is only the Arborists who are permitted to care for the holy tree. Unless, of course, you would want to make this old man drag your lifeless body up those awful winding stairs?” he said with a wink.

“Of course not,” Michael conceded. “I just … well … this is amazing!”

The two stood there in silence for a moment while Michael fully took in the awe-inspiring sight.

“Now to answer your question,” the Arborist persisted, “where does any tree, let alone this holy one, gather its life and strength from?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “From whatever its roots are connected to.” Engelmann made a theatrical bow.

Michael shifted his feet as he peered at the base of the roots where they disappeared into the ground, a curious wonder creeping over his face as his eyes grew wide. He slowly backed away from the root closest to him, anxiously scrutinizing the floor.

“No, you dolt!” Engelmann grumbled, then reached up and knocked Michael on the head with his leathery knuckles. “I mean figuratively, of course!”

“Yeah … yeah, I knew that,” Michael said sheepishly, rubbing his head and walking slowly back to the center of the room.

“See here then—it is not the branches or flames or even these physical roots that give this great tree its strength. No! Its source of life comes from One much greater than any created thing.”

“The THREE who is SEVEN?” Michael asked.

Engelmann smiled a reassuring smile, nodding his head in the way a proud teacher congratulates his learned student.

“If this is indeed the truth, then I suspect that the darkening of the tree is not the end of light and life, but the beginning of
another
display of His brilliant strength and power,” the Arborist said with a conspiratorial excitement. “That, young Michael, is what is
behind
the carvings of all the prophecies of old. A true understanding of His intentions is right here in the formation of His great tree! Ha, ha!” he laughed, clearly pleased with himself.

Michael didn’t quite grasp the full meaning of the musings of the old Arborist, but as he searched his weathered face and felt his radiant joy, he understood that perhaps these hopeful ramblings were worthy of some further consideration. This way of thinking reminded him painfully of what Cal had so often tried to make him see, and so he determined to honor his friend by giving this Engelmann a chance to share his knowledge and his foreign concepts.

“Now come, what do you say to some tea?” Engelmann invited, sensing that his lesson was completed for the time being.